He stared at a picture from my newborn photoshoot. I was in a basket, and a huge pink bow adorned my head.
“I had great style, even then,” I teased. “Well—Mom did. She loved dressing me up.”
The next photo showed Mom holding me, smiling at the camera.
“She was beautiful,” Asher said softly. “You look like her.”
“Thanks for calling me beautiful.” I patted his thigh. “But you’re right. Mom was stunning.”
We reached a picture of me at three, wedged between my parents. Asher’s expression sobered. “Does your father ever smile?”
I chuckled, lifting my glass. “He does. Just not at me. I get the stink eye.”
“That’s the last thing you should be getting, peque.” Asher raised his drink. “To your mom.”
“And your dad,” I whispered as we clinked glasses.
The whiskey scorched down my throat, eyes watering. Asher didn’t flinch, just handed me a slice of cheese. “Eat something. It’s worse if you’re not used to drinking.”
I nibbled a piece. “Do you? Usually drink, I mean.”
He shook his head. “Only sometimes. Never if I’m racing the next day.”
I kept flipping pages. Ash asked me to pause a few times so he could study the photos. Maybe it was the alcohol, but some made my eyes sting—especially the ones where Dad, Mom, and I were still a family.
Things had started to change even before Mom got sick. I remembered Dad working late while she waited. She’d cook elaborate dinners, but in the end, it was just the two of us eating in the living room, cartoons flickering on the TV.
Dad was never really there. Not even when he sat at the same table.
“Peque.” Ash’s fingers threaded through my hair. “What’s on your mind? You got quiet.”
I closed the album and took another sip of whiskey. Still awful, but I was getting used to it. “Just remembering.”
“You looked sad.”
“I remembered sad stuff.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t look at more.” Ash carried the album to my desk and set it down.
“So, what can we do?” I asked.
He returned to my side. “Play a game?”
“I love the idea. But let me turn off the light first. It’s hurting my eyes.”
I lit two candles on my nightstand and switched it off.
“Truth or Dare,” I told him, sliding back beside him. My chance to be nosy—I wouldn’t waste it.
Ash leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Alright. Want to start?”
I giggled. “Truth or dare, Ash?”
“Truth.”
I bit my lip. “When did you have sex for the first time?”
“Joder, peque.” He sat up straighter. “Remind me not to play drinking games with you again.”
